continued...

I smoked back then; a lot. Cigarettes, coffee and naivety went well together; all these things the stuff of struggling writers. Saw myself as a young Rider Haggard / Stuart Cloete / Brett Young super clone. Fantasising was the easy bit – stringing together words that would entertain and mean something was quite literally, another story. Anyone can be taught how to write and thousands do make a respectable living from it, though from out of those thousands, rise very few who can weave a tale that makes a man or woman step willingly beyond the boundaries of the real world. My first ever line? Maybe someday I’ll tell you. For now – you will have to suffer the ramblings of an old prospector...

Back in ’84, literary agents (most of them) were real people. They cared and nurtured new talent. They answered letters; I mean actually wrote them and signed them with fountain pens, used their name instead of ‘dot-coms’, said things like; “ Your spelling and punctuation aint so hot but your writing is fantastic! Yes really!” To one such agent, a certain Carol Smith who is now herself a writer of note, I am and always will be much indebted. Without her encouragement my modest skills would have been put to some lonely road-side grave. Never once did she suggest I change genre from adventure to vampire driven fantasy – never once did she lose a query or give up on me. Sadly, those days are disappearing. Time us writers took control; let he or she be judged by the readers – when all is said and done it is they who buy the books; not the agents. Good stories live forever...